Bring Her Home

Nura

The weather was deceiving. Even though the chaotic sounds of summer had faded away, the sun had reached its supremacy through the winding streets of Cairo.

There was no shade except that which Nura could make with her hands. Her loose shirt had clung to her like shit to a shovel, and little beads of sweat slowly trickled down her face, evaporating before they could reach her chin. All around, others had made fans out of newspapers or pamphlets to shield themselves from the sun. The tangy odour of sweat had blended with the prickling aroma of spices along with the scent of meat getting cooked on roasting skewers.

The Friday market was always drowned with a sea of people. The deafening chaos all around grew louder as retailers were hollering out their special deals, and customers were desperately haggling over prices. At various stalls stood flamboyant signs with printed prices, enticing innocent shoppers towards them, perfect for pickpockets as they surreptitiously reached into the distracted victim's bags.

One man was about forty feet from Nura but definitely following her, matching her step for step. Nura made her way to the fruit vendors to get an apple—in which the gentleman running the store gave her one more free of charge—and paused at the edge of the stall. Turning slightly to look over her shoulder, Nura pulled out her phone and made a call that barely lasted thirty seconds, hanged up, then proceeded to twist through the crowds, edging through the impenetrable flow of people with her bags.

The man lingered, pausing beneath the awning of the flower market, and got an oversized handkerchief to mop his brow. Nura went inside a restaurant, where it was dark and cool as night. Fresh fruit was piled atop a curved mahogany table. She asked for directions to the lavatory even though she knew perfectly well it was to the left and to the rear.

Back there, it was like being at the bottom of a well. Both light and sound were distorted. Shadows, grotesquely elongated, swept across the walls as if painted with a surrealist's brush. The burst of conversation from diners at the inner tables drifted to her overlaid with echoes created in the tiny space.

Nura walked into the cubicle, pulling the door shut behind her. She stood motionless, seemingly doing nothing. But, in fact, she was listening. At length she heard the soft tread of careful footsteps. It was hushed in the close, dank cubicle. Nura could no longer hear his approach, but she could feel his proximity. She willed her body to relax, as she watched the door handle slowly turn. She had not locked the door, and now it began to open.

She turned so that her right side was to the door. As she did so, the door squealed on its old hinges. Nura felt like crying then, but from sheer relief. She was met with a petite female worker who looked up with a puzzled look, seeming a little flustered as her face turned a shade of red. "Oh! So sorry, Ma'am. I thought the stall was empty. . ."

When Nura cleared up the misunderstanding and walked out of the restaurant, her heart sank when she noticed the 4 feet 3 striped red cane that the very same man had unfolded from his bag. How could she have missed that? Next to him, appeared an older lady, her greying hair drawn back sharply with almost undue severity from her lined forehead and wrinkled face, clad in the traditional woman's garments—a goatskin apron edged with beads and a short cloak of the same material. The woman held his hand and whispered something to him, causing him to smile, as she guided him to the main road.

Men and women had crowded the tarmac road and side streets, inching along and shouting in competition for the buses and auto-rickshaw rides available. Nura gave the apple she received to the homeless person lying on the bench on the out skirts of the market, and soon boarded the half-empty bus, the silence a gift in opposition to the thrumming cacophony of the fleeting market. She couldn't believe how paranoid she had been recently. Why had he gotten under her skin so much? Too fatigued to ponder over her own question, she leaned her head against the window and closed her eyes, her mind groggy with sleepiness.